Her people knew him, and the Silklands maid brought him at once to her bedroom, shooing away a pair of half‑bred pocket terriers and a slim young man with equally bouncing manners. The curtains were drawn well back here, too, letting the light stream in, and the air smelled of rosemary. No common scents for Annechon, he thought, and she rose to greet him, both hands outstretched. She was easily as tall as he, perhaps a little taller; the strong light made no secret of the lines that were beginning to show on her hard‑boned face, but her hair was still darkly lustrous, without the slightest touch of silver. And she would be beautiful greying, Rathe thought helplessly, she had been beautiful when she was the baker’s fourth and skinny daughter, hired to keep an eye on a gardener’s son in Point of Knives. He’d adored her then, at the age of seven, and she’d never let him forget that he’d once–misunderstanding matters–proposed lemanry. She wasn’t skinny now, but ripely beautiful, her dressing gown, scarlet as an advocat’s robe, flowing loose over corset and petticoats. He returned her embrace, feeling like a child again, and she waved him to a seat on the tambour reserved for her favorites.

“What a pleasure!” she said, and her voice still held a hint of the southriver accent. “But it must be business, you’d never come here without that protection.”

Rathe sighed, knowing she was right. “I’m really that ungracious?”

“You know you are,” Annechon answered. “But I am flattered. It’s not every woman who can still fluster her first nurseling.”

“Hardly that,” Rathe protested. “You were the child‑minder. Never a nurse.”

“Would you rather I said first suitor?”

“I’d take it more kindly if you’d forget that,” Rathe said, and she grinned.

“Even more ungracious. But probably wise, if the tale I hear is true. Did you finally bring your black dog to heel?”

Rathe felt the color stain his cheeks. “Yes.”

“And that’s all I’m to hear of it?” Annechon said.

“I need your help,” Rathe said, in something like desperation, and she leaned back in her painted chair.

“And you’ll have it–if I can, of course. Have you had breakfast?”

The remains of hers was on a side table, and Rathe couldn’t help a longing glance. “I’ve eaten,” he said, and she waved toward it.

“Well, have some more, there’s plenty. Ring for more tea if it’s cold.”

The plate of pastries, barely touched, was too tempting, and Rathe took one, biting into a pocket of dried fruits flavored with Silklands spices. It dripped, of course, and he caught the blob of filling awkwardly, feeling more than ever like a child again. Annechon laughed without malice, and after a moment, he smiled back.

“What do you want of me?” she asked.

“Do you know the castellan de Raзan?” Rathe asked around a second bite of pastry, and Annechon managed a theatrical sigh.

“Never the question I want from you, Nico. Yes, I know of her– we don’t move in the same circles, mind you, or not much, but we have friends in common.”

“I thought it was interesting she took a house in Point of Hearts,” Rathe said.

Annechon nodded. “Interested in her pleasure, that one, and doesn’t care a bit for her reputation. What I know of her, I like, there’s no pretense there.”

“And her ambitions?”

“She hasn’t any that I know of,” Annechon answered, and Rathe made a face.

“Aspirations, then.”

“Purely of pleasure,” Annechon said. “Raзan’s a cold holding, so I hear, so she spends her winters rather warmer.” She paused. “Is it true it was her brother who was killed at the Tyrseia?”

“Yeah.” Rathe hesitated in turn. “Did you know him, Anne?”

“Not that one. He’s–he was just as intent on his pleasure as his sister, but not as generous. It could be she kept him short of funds, but I think it was more a habit of his own.”

Which went with what Siredy had said, Rathe thought. “Did he have political ambitions at all?”

“That one?” Annechon laughed. “Why in Oriane’s name would you ask that?”

“Because they’re somehow related to the crown,” Rathe answered, “by blood, not stars, and he was in the masque that’s designed to bring health to the state of Chenedolle. I have to ask it.”

“Then you can consider yourself answered,” Annechon said. “The de Raзans, Larivey or Visteijn both, don’t give a gargoyle’s kiss for affairs of state. Affairs of the heart only, except I believe that isn’t the organ either prefers.”

“Enemies, then?” Rathe asked, without hope, and wasn’t surprised when she shook her head.

“I doubt anyone would bother.” She paused, frowning slightly now. “Have I been any help at all?”

“In a negative way,” Rathe answered frankly. “But I pretty much expected that.”

“I hate meeting expectations,” Annechon said. “And now you’ll meet mine, and find some excuse to scurry away again.”

“I have work to do,” Rathe said, and knew the truth sounded like a lame excuse. Annechon laughed and waved him away, offering a last pastry just as she had when he was a boy, and Rathe accepted it, following her maidservant back down the unfashionable stairs past a trio of waiting gallants. It would do for lunch, he told himself, hearing the clock strike noon, and he was due at the Bells.

Sohier was there before him, as he’d expected, but the lurking runner was quick to fetch her, and they found another of the quiet alcoves in which to confer.

“You read my report?” she asked, and Rathe nodded.

“You’re sure?”

“Sure as can be.” Sohier shook her head. “There was nothing, Nico, nothing bigger than a barber’s basin, and I’d hate to try to drown a man in that. Even stunned, or drugged.” She paused. “There’s already talk.”

“No surprise,” Rathe said again. “We’ll keep it as quiet as we can, not that there’s much we can do about it. What have you found today?”

“Not much,” Sohier answered, and reached beneath her skirt for her own tablets. “Let’s see, two people have said he’d spoken of a marriage with the Heugenins–with the vidame herself, according to one young miss, trying to recoup his debts–but the vidame herself says she was trifling. She’d have bedded him, maybe settled an allowance on him if they were successful–she’s childless–but swears she had no intention of making a contract with him.”

“That’s the most promising thing we’ve heard so far,” Rathe said, and Sohier shook her head.

“Not wanting to disappoint, Nico, but I believe her. Even the people who mentioned it in the first place said it was all de Raзan boasting, nothing they really believed.”

Rathe sighed. Sohier’s judgment was generally reliable, too; if she said de Heugenin was telling the truth, odds were she was. “What’s left for the day?”

“We’re just about done with the chorus,” Sohier answered.

“Nobles taking precedence?” Rathe asked with a grin, and the younger woman shook her head.

“They’ve been easier to find. Gasquine’s been working the actors hard.” She glanced over her shoulder. “In fact, I should be getting back to them.”

Rathe nodded. “Go ahead. I’ll be along as soon as I can catch a word with Mathiee.”

“Good luck to you,” Sohier answered, and turned away.

The rehearsal was well under way, he saw, the chorus idle while two of the principals held the stage. It was the first time Rathe had heard more than a few lines of the play, the first full scene he’d heard, and in spite of himself he found himself standing silent between two of the massive set engines, caught in the story’s moment. Anjesine bes’Hallen, a Silklands scarf standing in for the old‑fashioned veil she would wear later, held center stage with the ease of long practice, commanding in her silence, while Caradai Hyver raged around her, reminding her leman of promises made and broken. Hyver belonged to Gasquine’s company, bes’Hallen to Savatier’s; the chance to see them onstage together, in the two leads, would bring Astreiant flocking to the masque, and to the play. Hyver paused–she played the Bannerdame Ramani, whose stars made her a great general–but bes’Hallen remained still a heartbeat longer, long hands posed against her skirt. Then, slowly, she shook her head, rejecting not her leman but the anger she carried, swallowing her pride again for the sake of the kingdom. And that much, at least, was legend, Rathe thought. The Soueraine de Galhac had held her hand as long as she could, swallowed insult after insult, until finally the Palatine of Artins refused the marriage, her daughter to de Galhac’s son, that would have restored the fortune de Galhac had ruined in her service. On the stage, Hyver paused in her turn, then swept into a deep curtsy, skirts pooling on the stage around her. It was the obeisance one gave a queen, and from leman to leman it was disconcerting and strangely moving, and the pause before bes’Hallen moved to raise her friend was even more unsettling. But then, the play didn’t deny the ambition on both sides, the need of the palatine to be free of de Galhac, and de Galhac’s need to dominate in Artins.